


14th of December

by SallyK



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (more or less), Angst, Drama, Historical Hetalia, M/M, References to attempted suicide, heavy references to the spanish civil war and franco's dictatorship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-01 23:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallyK/pseuds/SallyK
Summary: The 14th of December of 1956 was an important day.It was the day Spain joined the United Nations.It was also the first time England saw him since before the war.





	14th of December

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone!
> 
> In my first UkSp fic I made a brief mention about the UK not helping the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War, but I wanted to reflect about that a little bit more, and thus this story was born.  
> I actually started writing it three years ago but... yeah. I'm glad it's finished at last.  
> Big thanks to everyone who took a look at the draft and helped me with it!
> 
> I hope you like it!

The meeting was just a farce, obviously. England didn’t have to think it twice to know that. 

He didn’t care, either. He was already used to that superfluous pomp and circumstance, the unnecessary announcements, the neat plaques with their names placed carefully in front of their seats, as if they hadn’t known each other for years,  _ centuries  _ even in some cases. His plaque said “United Kingdom”, but people expected to see him and not his siblings, so he always went to those events alone. England was sure they were cursing at him from across the Atlantic Ocean, specially Scotland, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle a few insults, as colorful as they might be. He had already heard curse words too many times, in too many languages.

What England didn’t know, though, was if the world summits, where the representations almost  _ always  _ ended up yelling at each other, were whether a mockery or a gesture born out of good will from their leaders. In any case, it felt like being relegated to the kids’ table at a fancy dinner, because their bosses always had their own meetings—the real, important ones—in a place where they wouldn’t be bothered by the nations’ bickering. 

There was a time when their presence meant something, when one more man or woman behind a sword, a pike or a musquet could tip the scales in a battle. When their leaders still regarded them as something between a divine and a demonic thing. Now nobody wanted to see what happened if your representation got their head blown up by a grenade, or ended up like a sieve thanks to a machine gun. England supposed they couldn't  _ die  _ for as long as there was a national feeling amongst their inhabitants. But still, it wasn't ideal. The viciousness which humans fought these days with didn't give they countries too much room to act either. How could anybody suppose them being able to fight when they were constantly bombarded, or mined, or attacked with whichever new device of nightmare could mortals think of? England still remembered being unable to barely walk without limping when the Blitz was decimating his cities, waking up in the middle of the night with a scream. How his hands were trembling when he tried to pick up a rifle to go to the continent for Operation Overlord (not that they’d had let him until the beaches were secured, but he wouldn’t have been able to in any case).

So they have been relegated to… this; mere trophy wives, being told to dress neatly at international meetings, since the physical aspect of a representation was an unavoidable way of knowing how actually their country was faring. They put on nice clothes, make up and the fakest of smiles, especially if the ones watching you were other nations’ leaders.

England was no exception. He had been told to act as politely as possible, trying not to reveal the never-ending headache that had been drilling at his skull since the British Empire had started to tore apart with the independency of its now former colonies. He thought he should have asked for something stronger than tea to survive the meeting, because that dull pain was brutally attacking him that morning, although he knew better than to allow himself to drink in this kind of events. But he didn't wish, not for a single moment, that one of his siblings were there, allowing him to get drunk back at home and pass out, forgetting the pain just for as long as he were unconscious. Not ever, and certainly not today.

Today, 14th of December of 1956, was an important day. 

It was the day Spain joined the United Nations.

England had been trying to keep his composure all day, not only because he was supposed to project a strength and unity he was far from feeling. There was something more, something that had been gnawing at his stomach since the Prime Minister Eden had told him which countries were joining the UN next time they had a meeting. Something that have been there from before.

And, what started just as a some kind of phantom feeling had developed to a stronger sensation, turning him to a jittery mess, like a bloody school girl. The scars from the war itched, and he couldn't scratch them without being noticed, so he had to grit his teeth and pray for this whole charade to be over soon.

“You’re even moodier than usual. I didn't think it could even be possible. You look like a really angry bulldog,” France muttered with clear disapproval.

_ Shit.  _ Was it that obvious?

“I practiced just for you,” England grumbled. 

God, that headache was going to be the end of him.

France started to reply, but his words died alongside the whispers and not-so-whispers in the rest of the room. United States had risen from his seat.

Despite the casualties, there was no doubt the war had been great for him in the long run. Maybe, in the past, England could have been happy for him, his little brother. But it would take a really good person to be glad for someone else’s success when your empire was crumbling in your hands, and only when  _ really  _ drunk with alcohol and delusions could England think of himself as a good person. And the United States had stopped being his  _ little _ brother long ago.

“So, before we start the session, I think we should welcome our new fellow members!,” the self-proclaimed leader of the meeting announced, gesturing towards the door.

England inhaled deeply. It was always a relevant moment when a country joined the United Nations, and since that day, the total number would be increased in fifteen. But he didn’t care about fourteen of them as much as he did for the remaining one. The one he hadn’t seen in a very, very long time. 

The door was opened, and the new members entered the room silently, following the alphabetical order in English. Each one of them went to their assigned seats around the room, the rest of the nations looking at them as if they were goods for sale. Before their eyes walked by Austria, Finland, Hungary, the Italy brothers—whose humor didn’t seem as bright as it had been long ago—Jordan... England knew that  _ he  _ would be the last, but that didn’t make him more patient. He was almost jumping on his seat when the last nation came in, closing the door behind him.

Spain wore a green military uniform, and going against the protocol of taking your hat off when indoors, he was still crowned with a matching peaked cap. Shiny silver buttons, first-class looking medals peppered over his chest, polished black boots. Everything was new and spotless.

Everything but him.

Despite an excellent work from his make up stylist, his skin was still noticeable grey-ish, his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes shined without any trace of cheerfulness or warmth; the foundation couldn't hide the dark circles of exhaustion that framed his face. His way of looking was so sharp and ruthless, so…  _ unlike  _ him, that it made England shiver unconsciously when their eyes met, even when it was just for a second.

England tried to forget his uneasiness as the meeting started officially, taking special care in not observing Spain, who was strangely quiet; too much. He couldn’t prevent a few glances, however. It was what he had been waiting for, as they hadn’t run into each other since before the Spanish Civil War. Spain had already joined other international organizations, such as the UNESCO, but they had not met until that day.

The day England couldn't lie himself anymore about how much he wanted to meet with him, how much he  _ needed  _ to meet with him.

It could be considered cruel, but England had wanted to check with his own eyes –not through reports or comments from Portugal or France– how Spain was, how the war had affected him, and whether if despite of that, things were going moderately well for him. He had told himself that it was because they had so much History in common; the curiosity was natural.

(A lie).

Now, when the answers were slapping him in the face, he wasn’t sure if wanting them was a good idea after all. 

It had to be hard, England thought, being surrounded by nations you used to look over your shoulder, nations that currently saw how small and wrecked you had become. Spain had always been proud; even prouder than him. This situation had to hurt him even more than a physical wound.

The meeting stretched on and on, and England did not pay much attention to what the others were talking about. It was probably about Russia and his allies, and America and his allies, anyways, and he didn’t even feel in the mood to tell United States to lower his voice when he started yelling about how Communism was a deadly threat. England had learned how furious his former colony could become when talking about the Soviet Union, and how stupid was trying to calm him down when he was like that. Their rivalry was ferocious, blistering. England thought it was even worse than his own with France or Spain. They did not have atomic bombs back when the three of them struggled to rule the world, at least.

Spain almost didn’t intervene during the reunion and, when he did, he was more like an echo of United States’ words than someone speaking his mind. It was not strange; United States was the one who had invited him to the UN. And that was what England kept telling himself every time, trying to ignore how it bothered him because... why should he care in the first place? Spain's voice didn't even sound like his own, so it didn't matter what he could say in the meeting. It shouldn't matter to him.

(Another lie).

At some point, it became clear that they did not have anything else to discuss—or maybe they grew too tired to continue doing so—, and the meeting ended. The nations rose from their seats and hurried towards the door, probably trying to flee before America and Russia started fighting  _ physically  _ in the middle of the room. England tried to follow Spain, who was already chatting with Portugal, but then someone grasped his shoulder, forcing him to stop.

Of course, it  _ had  _ to be bloody France.

“What are you doing?” The words came from England’s mouth almost in a hiss.

“Don’t.”

France did not need to add anything else; they both knew what he was talking about. Yeah, for once, England agreed with the annoying frog. It was a really bad idea. But he could not see Spain go without first saying something,  _ anything,  _ to him. So he freed himself from France’s grip and tried not to knock down the nations that crowded round the door. 

His breathing was so agitated that his side, where the skin was still raw because of the Blitz, hurt like hell, but he tried to ignore it and keep going. He didn’t catch up with Spain until it was almost too late, when him and Portugal were about to get into the car that had brought them there. However, he didn’t need to call Spain’s name. Portugal saw him approaching in a fast pace, and decided to wait for him.

“Are you leaving already?,” England asked when he was near enough to be heard without shouting.

“It has been a long journey,” Portugal answered with a faint smile. He has always been quite nice with him; their alliance had lasted for many centuries. “We are tired.”

“I wanted to talk to Spain.”

Portugal’s smile froze for a moment, and then he exchanged a silent look with Spain, who shrugged his shoulders. They did not have much of a choice. You had to be polite during international meetings and all that.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Portugal said before leaving them alone.

Even when winter had not started yet, it was rather chilly outside, so England led Spain back to the building, making sure to avoid any other nation. Luckily, they were either at the cafeteria or somewhere else, because the halls were empty, and he found a nice spot, decorated with paintings and with a big window that opened into the city.

Silence had fallen over them. Spain was obviously waiting for him to start, but England was too busy checking twice the things he had seen before. Now that he was closer, Spain’s appearance seemed worse. Even his hair was now more cinereous than actually brown. It reminded England of the colour of the ground in the trenches when it rained.

“Usually, if you want to talk to someone you, you know,  _ talk. _ ” Spain’s patience finally wore thin. 

England smiled. Pursuing Spain had somehow put him at a disadvantage, revealing how anxious he was to talk to the southern nation. Now Spain was anxious too. The field was even.

“How rude. One would think you’d be happier, now that you have finally acceded to the place from where the world is ruled.”

If Spain noticed his mocking tone, he didn’t show it.

“Yeah. I guess our admission to the United Nations wasn’t so problematic after all.”

Spain didn’t speak harshly. But even when his words had been said with a matter-of-fact tone, they still landed like a blow to his chest. It had been England's representative in the UN who, in 1946, had said that, until Spain was once again a democracy, the country would not be accepted at the organization. Almost a decade had passed, and Franco’s dictatorship was not closer to its end.

Yet, Spain was there. And they both knew it was not because the political stage had changed, but because the United States wanted more allies to fight against communism. Because Spain was another—strained, weak—voice against the Soviet Union.

Nothing more, nothing else.

It felt wrong, but England did not waste his time trying to make any sense of it. Politics hardly did.

“I haven’t seen you at the UNESCO meetings, even when you joined it some time ago. I had started to wonder if you would ever grace us with your presence.”

“I was…” Spain’s mouth opened and closed as if he were trying to find the right words. Then, after being silent for a moment, he finally spoke, “I was at home. There are a lot of issues we have to deal with, and I preferred to stay with my people. They needed me.”

“So how things are going there?”

“Great. Why?”

His response was too fast and high-pitched, and England could not help but notice that Spain was starting to get nervous, a few cracks appearing in the mask he was wearing. With a fidgety hand, Spain adjusted his peaked cap. 

“I’m just being polite,” England reassured “No need to be on the defensive.”

“You’re polite only when you can make profit of it, so excuse me for being wary.” England knew better than to let that low blow hurt him, so he did not even blink. “I should be leaving; I don’t want to make Portugal wait for too long.”

“Spain, wait!”

England grabbed Spain by the arm. He knew he should say something, but he didn't know how. He didn't know how much he should say in the first place. There were things, and then there was a  _ secret,  _ well buried under layers and layers of harshness and self-deception.

But no words came to his mouth

“Let me go.” Spain tried to free himself from his grip, but, God, he was too  _ weak,  _ and England too determined to make him stay, so he just struggled in his hand.

“How things are doing, Spain? For real.”

Spain didn't answer.

And it was only then—it had taken him  _ too _ long to notice, he cursed himself for that—when England realized that Spain had not looked at him directly in the eye, not even once, except from that unplanned and brief moment at the meeting.

England cleared his throat, trying to gain a few seconds to reorganize his thoughts, but he suddenly felt something wet under the hand he was grabbing Spain with. He froze, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Blood. It was  _ blood,  _ dark and warm, spreading under the fabric of Spain's green jacket.

“What the—?!” 

England released Spain in disbelief, but the dark stain was there, ruining the otherwise impeccable uniform. Spain hadn't even exclaimed, he just looked at the blood of his arm with curiosity, as if it wasn't coming out of his body. England's mind was racing, looking around frantically for a solution, and saw that there was a gentleman’s toilet near, so he  _ gently  _ took Spain's hand and guide him there. This time, there was no resistance, and England wondered if it was because Spain had seen it was futile or due to the shock.

The toilet was of the fancy kind, with a—thankfully empty—waiting room. The small couches and the vases full of flowers would have gathered England’s admiration at any other time, but right now he wasn’t in the mood to appreciate any ornaments or embroidery, as delicate as they were.

“Just… wait here. I’m going to look for bandages or something.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Humour me.”

He left before Spain had time to answer, just in case. 

* * *

Finding a first-aid kit was easier than England had expected, and besides from bandages and alcohol, he checked it to see if there were pills too—and, luckily, there were. He picked up an aspirin and swallowed it without slowing his pace. The chemicals wouldn’t do much, since his headache came from a totally different place than humans’, but he didn’t lose anything for trying. Perhaps if he believed strongly enough, the placebo effect would make him overcome the pain even if it was just a little. He needed all the help available to survive what was left of the day.

On his way, he also managed to find someone who could tell Portugal to go home. He didn’t know for how long he could manage to keep Spain at his side, but he didn’t want Portugal to freeze his arse off waiting for him. He would take Spain to their hotel once this was over.

However, even if he had bothered to do all of that, England was pretty sure Spain would have left. He hadn’t really give him any reason to stay; literally they hadn’t seen each other in decades and one of the first things England had done was to hurt Spain enough to  _ bleed.  _ He couldn’t exactly blame the guy for not wanting to see him again in twenty more years.

So it was actually a surprise to find Spain still in the waiting room, staring off into space. He looked… smaller. Lost. But it only lasted a heartbeat, because when Spain realised England had come back the strictness that was readable from his uniform returned to his face.

That stern look reminded England of Germany, in those brief encounters just before the war started ravaging Europe once again with a ferocity nobody could have even imagined. But the aura around Spain was weaker,  _ much  _ weaker. Like a child wearing his parents’ clothes and trying to command the same respect. It would be foolish to think Spain didn’t have aplomb, but it was painfully obvious that his whole ensemble—the uniform, the shiny medals, the icy stare—was just a façade. 

“I need you to undress if I’m going to clean that wound,” England said, almost shyly.

Spain stared at him as if he were growing a second head, probably thinking if it was worth protesting, and after shrugging his shoulders, he gave in, “Fine.”

Spain started unbuttoning his jacket, trying to ignore him. England’s attention focused on those fingers, paler than they used to be, as they struggled with the piece of cloth. He could not help but wonder how many times he had watched Spain undress–how many times he had undressed him–, his mind lingering on memories sweetened by time.

But now there was no sweetness, no playful glances or stolen kisses between one button and the next. Spain undressed methodically, tired; not a lover, but a patient waiting for a medical examination he preferred not to do. Once he got the jacket off, he threw a glance towards England, as if giving him a last chance to run away from this. 

England just stared and Spain started to unbutton his shirt too with a sigh. Finally, he finished with the last button and took the whole piece of clothing off.

The first thing that popped up in England’s head was that he looked like a Francis Bacon’s painting. But Spain’s body wasn’t art, unless you considered war to be as such. 

He had obviously been worse; there weren’t any open wounds besides the one in his arm. The pain and the malnourishment were readable, though. Bony ribs, scabs, patches of violet or dark red, paper thin looking skin. The traces of a puckered scar over his heart.

Seeing the aftermath, even almost two decades later, England couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened to Spain if his leaders hadn't managed to be neutral during WWII. He had seen Germany and Prussia after the Soviet Union had barged into Berlin, bodies still showing the burns from Dresden or Wesel. He had seen  _ Japan _ .

The superposition of those images with Spain's current patchwork of pain and bones made his skin crawl.

Natural disasters and catastrophes like famine weren't avoidable, and although they could always be managed better, representations accepted them easier. Existence was like that.

The violence tattooed on Spain's body, the dull ache from England’s wounds from the Blitz... They were human made. They  _ could _ be avoidable.

Just not by them. Nations didn’t have a word here. They just suffered the consequences.

“Don’t you dare look at me with pity,  _ Inglaterra,”  _ Spain almost hissed.

England was too old to feel pity. Apparently, he wasn’t too old to feel regrets.

Or perhaps he was old  _ enough _ to start feeling them. He wished to blame it on that godforsaken headache, but he wouldn’t be here, trying to reach to Spain, just because the end of the British Empire dizzied his mind up a little. No. That came from somewhere else.

“I don’t know how America thinks you’re going to be useful to his cause when you’re practically a dead man walking,” England said, opening the first aid kit and looking for something to clean up the wound.

“If you think I’m not going to punch you because I’m a  _ dead man walking,  _ then you’re  _ dead  _ wrong.”

England repressed a smile, even if the other nation couldn’t see it from where he was standing. Yes. That was more like it. The Spain he knew. The Spain he had fought with. The Spain he had loved. He was still there, behind that paraphernalia and the cold, absent mask. He just had to dig up a little deeper.

England sat in one of the couches, first-aid kit open on his lap. He was sure Spain preferred to be seated, and that way he hoped to have spared him from looking weak.

The other nation audibly sighed when he sat besides him, and he knew he had made the right call.

“Your arm.”

Spain's skin felt hot, feverish, under his fingers, and not because of the right reasons. England tried to be as careful as possible, cleaning the wound and dressing it up with bandages, as if Spain was gonna break if he did as much as stare at him too intensely.

The second part was a little more complicated, and they probably would have to deal with the consequences later, but England took the jacket and the shirt from Spain and went to the toilet itself. Blood was easier to clean when it was still fresh.

While he scrub the fabrics, he took a glance at the mirror. He, of course, still looked like a young man in his early twenties, but definitely felt like an old man who sometimes was tired of being harsh and angry with the rest of the world after centuries not caring whether he was loathed or feared, after centuries  _ looking  _ to be loathed and feared.

Yes, definitely, he was old enough to feel regrets, old enough to think that his eyes had witnessed too much and his hands had shed too much blood. 

Even then there was blood under his fingernails. Spain’s blood.  _ Again.  _

He wrung out the clothes and came back to the waiting room. Spain's body was such an ugly, bruised mess that, surrounded by the luxury and cleanliness, he looked like something out of a dream. Out of a nightmare.

England hung the jacket and the shirt in the coat stand. Even if he had tried to just soak the part that was stained, he doubted they would be dry by the time their conversation was over, but it was better than anything.

Spain still had his peaked cap on, the visor darkening his face, but he was looking at him, truly  _ looking _ at him, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. England’s heart almost skipped a beat. Even if the ways hadn’t been the best, he was finally getting to Spain. It was time to say what he had come to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? Being a prick? I know you can’t help yourself, so there’s no need to apologize.”

England frowned, but otherwise didn’t answer to that. The topic was too serious to start a verbal fencing, even when Spain was asking for it.

“I didn’t want to make you bleed,” he said, gesturing towards the bandaged arm. “But mostly I wanted to apologize for not… helping you. During the war,” he added promptly, although it was not necessary.

Of course, it was more than just that. The United Kingdom had not only refused to help, it had prevented other countries from doing so.

England expected Spain to react with anger, sadness, scorn. To laugh hollowly and said that if he wanted forgiveness he could go to church.

Instead, Spain’s face was lit up with gratitude, and it revolted his stomach.

“But you  _ did  _ help!” Spain’s voice was cheerful,  _ too  _ cheerful. “You made sure the Republic would eventually fall. Their schemes stopped poisoning me, and we returned to better ways.”

“You cannot be bloody serious. They were your people too! And you looked so happy with the Republic...”

A look of panic spread across Spain’s face. The same cracks England had seen before were now spreading, widening. The whole ensemble almost fallen apart. It was now or never.

“It’s just the two of us here, Spain. You don’t need to pretend for me. I just… I just want you to be sincere. Whatever you tell me it's not going anywhere. From nation to nation.” England lightly placed his hand over Spain’s shoulder. He could feel him trembling under his touch, and it wasn’t likely it was because of the cold. “Please, tell me how are  _ you. _ ”

Spain looked sideways and took a deep breath. Something flared in his eyes, and England knew he had done it.

He didn’t see the punch coming.

He didn’t even  _ feel _ it because of the surprise, he just suddenly found himself on the ground, barely registering anything, before Spain was over him, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket.

“How am I?  _ How am I?  _ How are Portugal and I, while the rest of western Europe pat each other in the back?” His voice was dark, almost a growl, scraping the insides of his throat. “I’m not blind enough to not notice how you all have looked at me today. You think I can’t hear the whispers? You think I can’t feel your pity, as if this wasn’t  _ your  _ fault? You all  _ democratic  _ countries watched from the sidelines while I was being torn apart!”

Spain’s eyes smouldered, green embers without trace of the coldness or the emptiness they had showed before. The dam had burst, nothing holding back his feelings any longer.

“And all for what? War was coming to Europe anyways!! What did you think you would achieve? More time to live in your false peace? Feeling morally superior? Was I just a testing ground for you all? A playground for warming up before the true show beg—?”

A violent cough interrupted him and he had to move aside, covering his mouth too slowly to hide the blood that had stained his lips. England looked frantically for his handkerchief in his pockets and tried to offer it to Spain, but he pushed his hand away, looking angrily over his shoulder.

“I wrote you letters. I wrote all of you,  _ begging.  _ That’s what you wanted? Seeing me finally sink that low? 

“No, I—.”

“Because I would have done it. Everything you’d asked.  _ Anything _ . Just… to make it stop. Just to—”

Spain’s voice broke, and he clenched a fist against the scar over his heart. His breathing painfully erratic.

England moved besides him, offering his embrace, and this time Spain accepted his help. He gripped England's jacket as if holding for dear life and buried his face in the fabric.

England's face hurt where Spain had punched him, his skin hurt where Spain was grabbing him too tightly. But Spain's muffled wailing against his shoulder hurt even more.

He had no comfort words to offer; he doubted Spain even wanted any. So he just let him scream and cry all he wanted, all he  _ needed _ . England just gently caressed his hair, humming the first lullaby that crossed his mind, and prayed nobody decided to check on the toilet because of all the noise.

England's body was sore when Spain’s breath returned to normal and his grip relaxed a little. He avoided his gaze when they parted, getting up to at least seat again on one of the couches instead of on the floor, and England guessed this time was because of shame.

He knew how hard it was for Spain to show his weakness before anybody, especially him, so that just indicated how much he had tried to bury his feelings, to bury himself, if he had burst that way. It wasn’t pretty, but even if England knew little of how to manage emotions, he knew that just pushing them down and ignoring them wouldn’t make them magically disappear. Sooner or later you had to deal with them, and it was better if someone was beside you in case you needed your pieces being put together again.

England took his jacket off—it was funny, how he had managed to ruin two different jackets that day, his and Spain’s, although this one was because of tears instead of blood—and put it around Spain’s shoulders, who was trembling again. He wasn’t moving, just looking ahead with unfocused eyes, and England was afraid he had lost him again.

But Spain just sighed, and wrapped himself better with England’s jacket.

Because of all their struggle, the peaked cap was now lying on the floor, so England took it and offered it to Spain. It was then when he noticed something and understood why Spain hadn’t bare his head during the meeting. The uneven cinereous hair couldn’t completely hide a bullet-shaped scar on the right of the skull. Even with just a glimpse, before Spain put the cap on again, it was clear that the wound had opened  _ multiple  _ times.

England felt sick. 

“No need to look at me like that. It obviously didn’t work.” Spain sounded both exhausted and angry enough to punch him again if he dared to say something. “I always came back, fueled by pure hatred. And… fire. I guess you know how that feels. When it burns under your skin so hot you want to peel it off and drown yourself in the nearest body of water.”

England just nodded, absentmindedly scratching his arm. Those nights he had spent trembling in Scotland arms, like he had when he was just a child who knew nothing about the world and the humans that populated it. He could feel ashamed for having needed comfort from his brother after all this time, but back then he had only wanted to stop feeling pain. He hadn't care whose embrace was what made him feel even a tiny tad better.

He guessed it had been the same for Spain a few moments earlier.

“But the hatred… It never ends,” Spain continued, his voice coming from a very far place, “The war is over, but just in name. All those voices… I can’t make them stop, no matter how hard I try to shut them up. Even in my sleep I keep seeing faces, screaming. Some days I think I’m going crazy. I’ve tried praying, but even that doesn’t feel right anymore.” 

Spain looked at his hands, coarse and covered with small scars. The ones in his forearms were much larger, weaving a grisly pattern, and England wondered how he hadn’t noticed before how different they were from the rest of his injuries. He wanted to avert his eyes, but he couldn’t. He had asked to see what was behind the mask, he had pushed for the answers and now he had to deal with them. 

With a lump in his throat, England gave Spain a comforting squeeze, trying not hurt him again.

“No matter how you feel right now, you are stronger than this. You told me once, remember? ‘The Sun always comes back’.”

“Yes… I remember. I also remember you saying back that ‘No matter how bright the Sun shines if the storm has left nothing behind.’, didn’t you?” England frowned, trying to find a comeback, but Spain lifted a hand, shushing him up. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, of all people.”

“Because I asked?”

“ _ No me jodas.  _ I mean why would you ask. Why would you care _.  _ I know I shouldn’t blame you for your bosses’ decisions, but you didn't even have the guts to come and say what they had decided to my face. All I got from you was an errand runner saying that I would have to fend for myself.”

England swallowed. There it was. The secret, the pollutant around which a pearl made of denial and long sleepless nights had been formed.

He hadn’t gone to Spain to deliver the news because he knew he would have stayed. He would have stayed and fought, in a war that wasn’t his, just because it felt so wrong; perhaps England could understand and respect the neutrality, but  _ Arthur  _ couldn’t. He would have gone with Orwell or any other British component of the International Brigades and fought with all his might. Not for Spain, but for Antonio.

But he couldn’t say it, because it was the most sentimental and stupid thing he had almost done for Spain—even taking into account his whole record, too long to be comfortable with—and because he hated making himself that vulnerable. Even if his leaders hadn't forbid him from telling—which, definitely, they had—, he couldn't recognize that out loud.

He couldn’t say it because Spain deserved to be angry—at the world, and specially at him, and even when he had stolen so many things from him in the past, he couldn’t deny him of that.

Besides, England could manage anger and hate. He had grown used to them. Indifference and silence is what would kill him.

“I wasn’t happy with what my leaders decided, because I’m old enough to recognize an incoming war and to know there’s nothing you can do to avoid it. But it was better that way, me not going to Spain, ” he said instead.

“Why? Were you afraid of my reaction? I punched France when he came to visit and told me what you had decided.”

England let out a mirthless laugh.

It was as Spain had said. They shouldn't blame other nations for the actions their inhabitants took, but it wasn't always easy, and even less when they were at war or suffering. England still tensed up whenever he crossed paths with the German brothers, and he suspected the feeling was mutual. They saw the incendiary bombs behind each others’ eyes.

“Well, a punch wouldn't make that frog’s face any worse. It’s not a tragedy.”

Spain almost chuckled.

“Say what you want, but even with a broken nose France is way prettier than you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Please, we’re halfway the Twentieth Century and you still don't have a clue on how to groom your eyebrows.”

“I told you, I can’t do anything about them! A faerie cursed me when I accidentally stepped over their house when I was a child.”

England bit his lip, angry at himself, because how the hell could he bring up  _ faeries  _ when they were talking about  _ war _ ? But then Spain let out an actual laugh, and it was the most beautiful sound he had heard in a very long time. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold onto it. If it wasn’t for the pain of his cheek, he could try to pretend they were in another, happier time.

But this was the time they had to live now. The time of secrets and scars. England yearned again for something to drink. The aspirin had done nothing to his headache, and the conversation with Spain had left him in shambles. He could almost see France, standing in the doorway, say “I told you”.

He would have done it again, though.

Beside him, Spain sighed, rubbing his temples.

“God, I’m so tired… And I must look terrible. My diplomats are going to kill me when I go back to the hotel like this.”

“So don’t.” Spain raised an eyebrow at him. “I mean, you can stay the night with me. You will look better tomorrow and I can get your uniform properly cleaned so you don’t have to appear like this”

“Stay the night with you? I knew you had weird tastes, but sleeping with a  _ dead man walking  _ seems too much.”

England felt his cheeks growing hot.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I was even going to sleep in the armchair and let you have the bed for yourself. I wouldn’t—”

Spain nudged him at the side, a weak smile on his lips. 

“I know. I just wanted to see if I could still get you all flustered like that.”

England had to told his heart to calm down before it could jump out of his chest. Part of him  _ did  _ want to hold Spain close, kiss his pain away and do anything he could to make him forget everything just for one night. But apart from being afraid of Spain’s body crumbling under his fingers if he didn’t touch him as if he were porcelain, he knew his relationship wasn’t like that. Not anymore.

And he definitely should stop making stupid decisions relating to Spain. 

“In any case,” Spain said, taking England’s jacket off his shoulders and going to the hanger to retrieve his clothes, “I should go back to Portugal. He’s a patient guy but I doubt he’s happy about having to wait for me so much.”

“Oh, I took care of that while I was looking for this,” England said, closing the first aid kit and shaking it in the air, “and had someone told him to go home. So I guess you’re stuck with me, at least while my chauffeur drives us to your hotel. Unless you want to get rid of me already, because I can have him just drive you there and then come back for me,” he added, unsure.

He already had pushed Spain too much that day; he didn’t to make things even more awkward between them. Spain just shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s a ten minute drive tops. I think I’ll manage standing you a little longer.”

“Let’s go, then,” he said while buttoning up his jacket. 

England knew he should find again somebody to return the first kit aid to, but they both were so tired he just left it in the waiting room.

England’s chauffeur didn’t bat an eye when he told him they were going to Spain’s hotel. He didn’t even looked surprised to see them like that, uniform jackets ruined, one of them with a soon-to-be bruise on the cheek and the other literally looking half-dead.

They didn’t speak in the car, not because of having now a human witness, but because there was nothing left to say. England felt empty, his mind still taking in everything he had seen and heard in that toilet, his headache eating away any coherent thought, his secret fumbling around inside of him like a meal that hadn’t sat well with him.

The ten minute ride was soon over, Spain’s hotel looming over them. He didn’t looked happy having to go inside. England wondered what he was going to say to his diplomats. Spain’s lies weren’t great.

“My offer still stands,” England said tentatively.

“Thank you. But even if they're going to be angry, I want them to see. It’s not  _ my _ fault I’m like this under the uniform.”

“So did you stay because of that? In the toilet, I mean. I thought it was strange you didn't go while I was away, but it makes sense.”

Spain remained silent. England didn't need any other answer. 

“I guess this is goodbye, then,” he mumbled.

Spain looked at him, eyes glassy, his mind drifting away to whichever place he found solace to survive. Still, he managed a smile. Faint, yes, but a genuine one.

“It has been… good to talk to you, England. Weird, but good. I really needed to vent. Thanks.” England smiled wryly. “I have to say the punch was by far the best part.”

“If you call that a punch…”

“Do you want another? Because I can arrange that.”

“Save it for the next meeting. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Spain finally opened the door and got out of the car. He shivered again, feeling the chill December breeze against his damp uniform. He turned one last time, his façade completely back except for the ruined makeup and the slightly red eyes.

“Being here today, when things haven’t changed back home… you’re telling me I have to fence for myself yet again, aren’t you?” he said bitterly “No one’s gonna do anything apart for giving me spare change and look at me with pity” Spain almost spat the last word. “I might be grateful for today, but this doesn’t mean I forgive you, England. I don’t even know if I  _ can  _ forgive any of you.”

England nodded, understanding. He wasn’t going to argue with that. Spain knew he was sorry.

For the moment, that would have to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The specific paintings of Francis Bacon that I had in mind when writing this fic were _Three Studies for a Crucifixion_ , although they are from 1962.


End file.
